Services Rendered
by Borath
Summary: Ratchet and Starscream have an illicit agreement based in services rendered. Starscream gets the repairs he needs, and Ratchet gets something the Seeker tells him he needs. Mechslash, Smut, Shameless pwp.


_I fancied a tryst with a more unusual pairing. Warnings for complete and utter smut. Almost PWP, and proudly so. ^_^_

_******_

_We are made to bleed,_

_And scab and heal and bleed again,_

_And turn every scar into a joke._

_We are made to fight,_

_And fuck and talk and fight again,_

_And sit around and laugh until we choke._

'_Buildings and Bridges' – Ani DiFranco_

Services Rendered 

Ratchet left a human radio tuned to one of the indie music channels whilst he worked late, 'zoning out' as the humans would term it whilst he worked on something complicated and humming along during a straightforward task. When that folksy music came on, strumming guitars an intro into what had inadvertently become 'their' song, he immediately put things into a state where he could leave them for a few hours and slipped out of the Base.

The song wasn't a popular one and was only played upon request, particularly late at night when the signal went up. A call for aid which, as a medic, Ratchet simply couldn't ignore.

If Prime knew about these summonses, he'd shoot him personally. And Ratchet wouldn't blame him.

Transforming a little way from the Base, Ratchet drove the three miles out into a rocky patch of land that curved into a natural bowl and descended into its centre. As always, the other mech was already there, watching him with dim optics from where he sat.

"Hatchet. About time you got here."

Starscream was leaking out more this time than he had been the last few times he'd called the medic for help, and Ratchet was quickly on his knees beside the wounded Seeker as he inspected the twisted injury about his right leg. "How did you transform to fly here?" he asked as he set about sealing off the weeping lines, stemming the flow with quick welds so that he could move the various components back into their rightful places.

"It was fly or walk," Starscream replied through his dentals, lying back and fixing his gaze on the night sky to block out the pain. "Not walking was preferable. It's not as bad as it looks."

"I'll be the judge of that," came the chided response, and to underline it Ratchet chose that moment to snap the two pieces of the central support strut back together. Waiting for Starscream's howl to taper off, he began the delicate task of realigning and reconnecting the myriad of fluid and neural lines that ran down his thigh, through his knee and down the backs of his calves. "What did you do this time?"

The Seeker rubbed his optics before pillowing the arm behind his head, twitching when Ratchet touched on a raw neural feed. "Pointed out that I'd been right about the gaping hole in his last scheme which, predictably, caused it to fail."

Ratchet shook his head with a low sigh. "I've fixed you for that very reason almost every time you've called me for help. One day you're going to be sat here waiting holding your own head and I won't come because you've more likely than not brought it upon yourself."

Starscream smirked at that. "No you wouldn't."

A beat and finally the medic shunted a hot release through his vents, frowning at the damaged leg as he softly uttered, "No, I wouldn't."

They lapsed into easy silence for the next hour, broken only by Starscream's periodic grunts of pain and the sound of Ratchet's equipment as he carried out the repairs. Finally the leg was mended, and the medic sat back to watch him stand. Starscream rose cautiously and gingerly rested his weight on it, optics narrowing in satisfaction when there was only a minor ache. "Excellent as usual, Hatchet. You never disappoint me."

No, just myself, Ratchet privately groused to himself. He made to get up before the Seeker could approach him but wasn't quick enough, suddenly finding himself with a lap full of mech as Starscream folded his legs about his waist. "Starscream, you really don't-"

"Shut up, Autobot," Starscream half snapped, half crooned as he shifted his hips in a slow rocking motion. "We exchange services. That's the deal. I get something I want, and you get something you want."

Ratchet shook his head, trying to ignore how his neural lines were heating from the promising proximity and mounting anticipation. "I never want this."

"And yet you keep coming back," the Seeker purred, lithe claws running about and along the dimmed headlights to meet in the middle and descend down the central seam.

"I could never leave an injured bot to suffer, and the Decepticons have no dedicated medic." A steadying breath through his vents and Ratchet suppressed a moan, trying vainly to block out the sensation of skilled hands seeking the active ports between his rib struts, hunting for a connective cable. "I never asked for this."

"And yet," Starscream murmured, finding a charged line and teasing it out, drawing out enough length to plug the glowing tip into one of his own side ports.

The first sensory packages came through tinged with apprehension and guilt, giving the pleasure an acidic bite. It was quickly overwhelmed with lust, and Ratchet resigned himself to pulling the mech closer into him, gasping.

It was a twisted arrangement, built on blackmail and the Decepticon's assertion that nothing was free. There always had to be an exchange, either of power or services rendered. They wouldn't trade information, wouldn't bring the war into these infrequent meetings, and thus it was wholly personal. And Starscream had a knack for selfishness. It was crude and illicit, but so very pleasant.

Finally giving over completely to the rising tide, Ratchet forced their bodies down so that Starscream was on his back and manoeuvred the Seeker's just-repaired leg to hook about his waist and out of the way. The heady pleasure volleying across the interface line heightened to new peaks, strengthening more with each impassioned movement between the mechs as they ground their bodies harder into one another.

With the skill of a surgeon, Ratchet's hands wove between the complex parts of the Seeker's wings, following a mental map and Starscream's groans as he traced and rubbed and pinched along from one neural bundle to the next. His processor threatened to flux from the more frenzied assault on his own chassis, the plates above his swollen spark scratched and grasped as the lithe body undulated against his.

Crying out on the cusp of the inevitable fall, Ratchet dipped his head to bite down on Starscream's neck, triggering the Seeker's bellowing overload. As the raw surge was shunted in a crackling wave into his own port, he arched in spasms, head thrown back and lights flashing. Starscream came down from the electrical high with low, keening sounds where he simply moaned back into his processor, reaching a shaky hand back to pull his cable back from the other mech's port. Contained sensually to themselves again, he repressed the urge to simply collapse and forced his body sideways, rolling off the Seeker onto his back.

With a heady smile and shuttered optics, Starscream stretched languidly and flexed his leg, relishing how the pain sensors were still being displaced by the lingering charge of overload. Finally sitting up, he looked down to the recovering mech. "Now, tell me you didn't need that."

The bitterness that followed these encounters hadn't begun to creep in yet, though Ratchet still shot a withering look up at him as his fans began to cycle back to normal. "Oh frag off, Screamer."

A snort and Starscream rose to his feet with a smirk, rolling his head to pop the lines in his neck. He took a few steps away to give himself room to transform, finally moving out of the puddle of spilt energon. "I'll be seeing you, Hatchet."

Ratchet gave a slight nod and shuttered his optics again, listening to the transformation sequence before the jet returned to the sky and boomed off towards the Decepticon base. The coppery smell of interface filled his senses, and he could feel the spilt energon and lubricant from the mech's injured leg seeping in between his plates from the ground. It would be wise to find a car wash before returning to Base, and he'd have to make sure that all evidence of his call-out was removed. Though the guilt was beginning to seep into his spark now, Ratchet couldn't help but smile a little as he got back to his feet, systems tingling.

Services rendered indeed.

****


End file.
